Ah, Venice
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: Before Sri Lanka, Kirill makes a stop in Italy. Kirill / OFC, Rated M for reasons.


_A/N: The majority of this piece was written almost ten years ago when I started going through my Karl Urban phase. Okay, maybe 'phase' isn't the right word, because the Kiwi still gets my motor running. And, low and behold, he's coming to the Comic Expo this spring, so fingers crossed that I get to meet him!_

_I've written (horrible) Éomer fic, and so-so Bones fic (both of which have yet to see the light of day), so I figured I'd start with this: a wonderful insight to the character of Kirill, the Russian Operative in the Bourne Supremacy. This one shot takes place before the events of the film. I've always speculated as to whether or not Kirill actually dies in the film; he's critically injured in the car accident, but Bourne leaves him as is. Maybe he doesn't die, maybe he does. I probably won't continue this tale, but I've learned as a fic writer to never say 'never'._

_Incidentally, the name 'Kirill' is 'Cyril' in English; I felt that Kirill was his last name and that he needed a first, so I named him Sascha after a friend's husband. I love the name for a man. The 's' sounds like a 'z' in this case. This is unbeta'd, as most of my work is, so any grammatical errors or glaring plot holes are mine. But it's a fun little story, I think._

_All recognizable elements herein are property of their respective owners. The remaining content is mine._

* * *

><p>Sascha Kirill sighed heavily and let his head fall back against the mirrored walls of the elevator car. That last job…that last job had almost got him killed. Sure he came out on top in the end – he always did – but something was not quite right. It was as if his target knew he was coming. That meant that someone on the inside leaked information.<p>

He scowled at the thought, tried not to think about it, tried to clear his head. He inhaled deeply and held it, feeling his lungs expand and then begin to burn. Letting the air go slowly between his teeth, Kirill blinked and watched as the floor numbers lit up.

…_eleven_

He shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders which ached after swimming through the Venice 'streets'. His clothes were still slightly damp and they stuck to his skin in places and began to itch. He made a face at his reflection, a childish gesture, really, and then he smiled wolfishly.

…_twelve_

Kirill cleared his throat and checked his watch. Next, his foot tapped nervously. He wanted out of the elevator. _Now_. It was after eight and even though he was used to going without food for days, his stomach rumbled audibly. He was getting well acquainted with the Italian cuisine that the hotel offered as room service and he began contemplating a bottle of wine as well. Fuck tomorrow's job. Tonight, he wanted to get drunk and forget.

…_fourteen_

He snorted. Damn superstitions about the thirteenth floor. Thirteen was not an unlucky number; he had learned that from his Oma when he was small, only four or five. He remembered her as a warm, strong woman, standing over a pot of _kasha _with bread baking in the oven, her green eyes (her gift to him) sparkling as she glanced between him and the soup pot, shelling out advice. Or hugs. Or a piece of _gozinahk_.

…_fifteen_

A soft bell sounded, alerting Kirill that the elevator was stopping. But not at his floor. He stood straight and unblinking, his hand automatically reaching to the 9mm holstered at the small of his back. He waited only a moment before the doors slid open. A petite, blonde woman with golden skin and deep blue eyes came into view. Her small, lean frame was wrapped in a simple black dress and her heels gave her an extra two inches. A small smile formed on Kirill's lips and he released the hold on his gun, his brain now coming up with images of what this tiny woman might look naked underneath him.

"Buona sera," she said in a flat voice. Not a local. Most likely American then.

Kirill nodded, but did not answer.

"Do you speak Italian?" she tried, a little shaky, but she got the point across.

Of course he spoke Italian. And German. And French and Polish and Mandarin and a whole list of languages that she did not need to know about. To answer her, Kirill held up his hands helplessly and smiled the boyish smile that always got him under a skirt in middle school.

"I'm sorry," he said in smooth Russian. "But I only speak Russian."

The blonde's smile wavered and she looked a little crestfallen.

Kirill continued in his native tongue, softening his tone and letting his gaze heat up. "I would very much like to fuck you, that is certain. Tell me, have you ever sucked cock in an elevator?"

The blonde didn't even blink, but she smiled prettily and shook her head remorsefully, letting Kirill know that she had no idea what he just said.

"That's too bad," he continued, feeling the elevator slow as they neared the seventeenth floor. "Maybe you would like to meet me in the pool later on and you can spread your legs for me while I screw you senseless. Would you like that?" He licked his lips and winked.

_There_. She blushed and looked away, trying not to smile so damn widely. "Well," she said in English, "it's too bad I don't understand you, and you don't understand me."

Again Kirill played dumb and the elevator came to a halt. He smiled, a little too leeringly, perhaps, and he slipped out the doors without another word or a glance in the blonde's direction. It was only a bit of fun, really. He checked his watch once more, and with a fond grin, swore softly. He was late.

* * *

><p>"Fucking late again." Nadja Petrova grumbled as she stretched her long, lean frame into an overstuffed armchair. She perched her high-heeled feet on the table and lit a clove cigarette. The pungent, spicy-sweet smoke filled the room.<p>

It was hot in the hotel room and she had just spent the last half hour pacing the overly-decorated cube like a lioness on the hunt. Sascha was late. Again. She hated when he was late because it made her worry. That in turn angered her more because it showed that she cared.

She hated caring. Especially for _that_ man.

Nadja sighed and the air that sailed up from her lips fluttered the deep chestnut bangs that swept across her high forehead. She brought the cigarette to her lips again as her free hand idly toyed with the necklace she wore. It had been a gift from Kirill, the chain of platinum and rubies, given to her the last time they met. When was that…almost a year ago now? Somewhere in the United States. He had bought it for her because she pouted too much about the Americans. That, and he liked to buy her expensive things. Her friends would tell her it was because he was never around, that he slept with other women all over the world, that he felt guilty for it and this was his way to make up.

If this was the way he made up for fucking up, then let him fuck it _all_ up. Except for being late. She had spent the better part of the afternoon shopping all over Venice, going from one little boutique to another, searching for the perfect outfit to go with the necklace.

So she sprawled, her olive skin barely covered by the red satin ensemble. She knew that the thong would have probably done on its own, showing off her endless legs and sculpted thighs and calves, and just covering what Kirill liked best. But the bra was over the top, pushing her firm breasts together so that they all but popped out of the silky prison. Kirill would like that best of all. She could hear his rough growl as he told her she had beautiful tits. She knew she was different from all the others.

* * *

><p>He could smell her as soon as he got off the elevator. The doors closed behind him, the petite blonde forgotten, and he inhaled again, and noting clove cigarettes and the musky perfume that <em>she<em> wore. He shook his head and grinned, knowing damn well that he was late and she was going to tear him a new one when he finally opened that hotel room door. They would yell at each other in heated Russian, her calling him a thoughtless bastard and he calling her a silly whore for thinking that he lived to see her. He knew this to be a lie, but he wasn't about to let her know that. That would cause…complications. Complications in his line of work were not acceptable. But the insults would lead to fighting, and the fighting was guaranteed to lead to fucking: wonderfully naked, wet, hot fucking. He shivered as he entertained the thought for a few seconds.

His hand lingered only momentarily on the door knob and he fished through the pockets of his damp suit pants. Coming up with a handful of lira, he plucked the key from the mass of coins and then dumped the change back into his pocket. The key slid home smoothly, and the metallic click was reminiscent of the cocking action of a 9mm. He slipped into the open door and as a habit, plucked the 'do not disturb' sign from the inside and slung it on the outside of the door. He stopped then and drank in the sight before him.

Clothes were strewn about _everywhere_. He snorted at that; Nadja had obviously had difficulty finding something to wear and he shook his head as he entered the suite, picking up a silk blouse here and a pair of slacks there. He tossed them into a pile on the desk and toed his shoes off. First one sock was peeled away and flung blindly, only to be followed by its mate. He curled his naked toes into the soft carpet.

"How nice of you to drop by," Nadja's honeyed voice called from her perch on the armchair that sat before the window.

Kirill looked up from unfastening his cufflinks at the sound of Nadja's quip, searching the room for her. He caught a glimpse of red polished toes and black open-toed stilettos balanced on the table, and then a plume of smoke rose above the wingback chair facing away from him.

"You were waiting for me." It wasn't a question. Kirill knew that Nadja would wait endlessly for him, no matter how much his lateness drove her insane. His keen eyes traced the room and he spotted a bottle of Putinka vodka a quarter empty. His mouth watered. Red wine could wait. Peeling the wet shirt off and dropping it unceremoniously on the carpet, he then reached for the belt of his pants and unhooked it. His slacks were off in seconds and he was stepping out of them. Clad only in a pair of black briefs, he strolled to where Nadja sat and he grasped the bottle of vodka.

A warm, firm hand settled on his, a jingle of bracelets drew his eyes downward and he followed the line of Nadja's wrist to her elbow, up the toned bicep to the bare shoulder and then…

A small sigh escaped his lips.

"_Ti takaya krasivaya_," he said softly as he took in Nadja's presence. She _always_ looked lovely, even when she was as she was right then, scowling and flushed, her lip curled in a sneer and her black eyes flashing.

"And you are very late," Nadja snapped back. She tried to keep a straight face then, staring up into Kirill's face and taking in the almond shaped green eyes, the full bottom lip, the slightly upturned nose. Then he smiled and she broke, shaking her head and laughing to herself. "Sit," she offered, pointing to the next chair.

Kirill shook his head. "No. You . Stand." His words were clipped and to the point and the look he shot Nadja dared her to argue with him.

She hesitated very briefly, and then handed the cigarette to Kirill. Slowly she stood, stretching her model frame to its full height. When he didn't say anything at first, Nadja pouted and then put her hands on her hips, fixing the man in front of her with a glare.

Cocking an eyebrow, Kirill reached for the Putinka and poured another shot in Nadja's empty glass. He raised it to his lips and drank slowly, savoring the icy crispness of the alcohol. He tilted his head as he took in Nadja's beauty and he nodded in approval. "I like your jewels, princess," he quipped, nodding at the necklace.

Nadja's graceful fingers traced the line of rubies and precious metal and she shrugged, one elegant shoulder lifting.

Kirill smiled and went on, taking a step into Nadja's space. He placed the clove between his teeth and held it there, and then switched the glass of vodka to that hand. Now his empty had was cold from the vodka and he reached out with it, tucking the fingertips of his first two fingers under the edge of red satin that so lovingly cupped Nadja's perfect breast. "And I suppose you just threw this on at the last moment." He smirked.

"_Nyet_," Nadja breathed, fluttering her eyelashes. "I put it on in the store. Wore it all the way here. Imagine me, sitting in the back of the town car, wearing red satin and thinking about you fucking me."

Kirill had to groan; he loved Nadja's way with words. She was always blunt, to the point, and she did not soften her language because she was a woman. Nadja was _more_ than just a woman; Kirill knew this as well as he knew his own face. With a wry grin, Kirill slid his fingertips from the bra, down Nadja's torso. One quick turn of his wrist and he was cupping her between her thighs, his grip warm and firm, and he wedged his middle finger into the soft valley there, tucking the damp satin between the folds of Nadja's sex.

It was Nadja's turn to purr, and purr she did, but her soft smile soon faded and she pushed Kirill's hand away, much to his disappointment. She moved then, stepping around him to the desk where her purse sat.

Kirill let his had drop to his side and he gave an exaggerated sigh. Rolling his eyes to himself, he turned and stared at Nadja's back. "What's wrong, kitten?" He went to her, sliding his arms around her waist, palming her hips, and resting his chin on her shoulder. "Hmm?" His lips nibbled softly on the soft skin of her shoulder and he inhaled her perfume. "Tell me," he whispered.

Nadja flicked her head and annoyance and pulled away from Kirill's mouth. "Don't you ever fucking shave anymore?" She turned to look at him while she reached up with a hand and rubbed the offended skin.

"What got up that lovely ass of yours, Nadja? You are always so happy to see me." He gave her a boyish pout. "Besides, I thought you liked it when I didn't shave. I believe your exact words were 'I love when you eat my pussy and scratch me with those whiskers.'"

"Is that all you think about? I haven't seen you for almost a year, Kirill…"

"_Sascha_," he stated firmly. "You know I like it when you use my first name."

"So why do you think I'm not using it?"

Kirill growled, aggravated, and he flopped back on the bed. He slid up until his head hit the pillow and he folded his arms beneath his head. Crossing his legs at the ankles, Kirill took on the pose of complete indifference.

"If I knew you were going to be a bitch, I would have told you to stay in Moscow."

"You know I can't stand that fucking city," Nadja mumbled as she turned back to her purse.

"Kitten, you can't stand it anywhere. Odessa or Minsk or Berlin. You hate the rain in England and the Parisians in Paris and you loathe Spanish food." He chuckled at his humor. "But you've never complained about Venice," he pointed out as an afterthought.

"That's because I've never been here," she replied with a snap.

"Then quit acting like a spoiled brat and come over here and say hello." He watched Nadja whirl around, her necklace and dark eyes flashing. Kirill propped up on his elbows and raised a dark eyebrow in interest. "I've missed you, Nadja," he said softly, sincerely.

He watched then as Nadja's stance softened a little and she tilted her head down, looking at the floor for a moment. Then she looked back up at Kirill from under her dark lashes and let her lip curl up at the corner.

"Did you really miss me, Sascha?" she asked as she lifted one foot to hook a finger in the strap of her shoe. She pulled the stiletto off and let it fall to the floor, soon to be followed by the other.

Kirill nodded and sat up further as Nadja neared the end of the bed and sank to her knees there. She slowly crawled up the length of Kirill's body, the softness of her breasts pressing into his thighs, his stomach, and finally his chest. She was warm and his arms automatically wrapped around her. One hand threaded into her dark hair, feeling the thick, silky tresses there. He placed his other hand on her face, and his thumb stroked her cheekbone and brushed the tip of her nose. Quickly he placed a small kiss there and he pulled back to look into her eyes.

"In every city, in every hotel room, hostel, street corner, taxicab, restaurant, or café. I miss you everywhere." He let his lips press against hers in a slow kiss, soft and wet and unassuming. "You know that," he whispered against her mouth.

He felt her nod. "Show me," she asked.

"After dinner," Kirill stated huskily. He almost laughed at the sheer look of disbelief in Nadja's eyes. "Nadja, I'm starving!" He chuckled, pleading with her.

As if on cue, Kirill's stomach growled audibly and Nadja sighed, nodding her head. "All right. You eat. I'll change…"

"_Nyet_," he said, shaking his head. "You'll stay in what you're wearing. You'll eat, too. You're too thin, Nadja," he scolded as he molded his hand to her ass. He squeezed affectionately.

"You're starting to sound like my aunt Yeva," Nadja scolded gently as she rolled off of Kirill. She sprawled on her back and stretched languidly, watching as Kirill pulled himself to a sitting position. He plucked the room service menu from behind the phone and waved it at Nadja.

"What do you want?" he asked, even as he picked up the phone and dialed '0'.

"Don't care," Nadja said simply. "A hamburger. Fries. Coke."

Kirill chuckled. "So American."

"I hate Americans," Nadja reminded him.

"But you love their cheeseburgers." He frowned then, taking the menu back. "I don't think I can get you a burger here." His eyes narrowed as he looked over the menu.

His squinting did not go unnoticed. "Not wearing your glasses again, Sascha?"

He shrugged, still looking at the menu. "They get in the way. Do you know how many pairs I've broken?"

Nadja didn't answer – he didn't expect her to. The hotel operator came on line and Kirill ordered in flawless Italian, adding a good bottle of wine at the end.

"Can you get me chocolate cake?" Nadja asked as she rolled to her side and traced the pattern on the bedspread with her fingers.

Kirill paused and then rattled the question off and waited a beat. He looked to Nadja and smiled. "Something better." He hung up and lay back down, twisting to his side to face Nadja.

"How is Yuri?"

Nadja smiled at the mention of her father. Kirill and the old man had hit it off immediately when they met over five years ago. It was more of an accident, really. Kirill had arranged to meet Nadja in her home town of Tula, just south of Moscow. Nadja had meant to come in unannounced, but she had run right into her father outside of the market and he insisted that if she was in town, she stay with him. She tried explaining that she was there on business, that a colleague was supposed to meet her there, and so Yuri waited with her.

When Kirill had arrived, the old man looked at his daughter quizzically and then shrugged, his way of silently saying that if Nadja wanted to tell him something, then he would not press her. Instead, he carted the two off in his Lata to his modest home where he and his older sister Yeva treated the two to a home cooked meal. Sascha couldn't remember the last time he had eaten so well. He felt an instant connection with Yuri, perhaps borne of the fact that Kirill's father had died when he was young, perhaps borne of the same protectiveness over Nadja. Whatever the case, the next three days found Kirill in the garage tinkering with the old Soviet automobile, repairing a screen door that had probably seen the fall of the Tsar, and building a set of stairs off of the back porch. He was the farthest thing from an assassin in that little house in Tula, and he cherished the memory.

"Yuri is well," she said, her eyes bright. "His health is good and Yeva takes good care of him. The arthritis is getting worse in his hands and he can't fix things the way he used to. He says he misses you in the garage. Wants to know when you're coming back for another visit."

Kirill nodded. "Perhaps in the winter," he said, not committing to anything. But he wanted truth to be in his words and so he made a mental note to try and get away for a bit around Christmas.

Nadja bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She hoped that Kirill would try to come, if not to visit with her then to see her father. She noticed that he had fallen silent and his green eyes had become fixed on various parts of her body. She grinned, feeling a small victory had been won.

"Sascha, you haven't even eaten dinner and already you want dessert." The hand that rested on her thigh slid up to smooth over the red satin bra. Her nipple hardened with the soft caress and she inhaled quickly at the ripple of pleasure that wound up her spine.

"Just a taste?" He watched with a heated gaze as Nadja slowly turned onto her back and trailed her fingertips down the valley of her breasts. He loved the way her belly dipped in and her hipbones curved out, and her navel was just begging to be kissed. There was a firm swell on her lower belly, just above where her underwear rested, and Kirill shifted onto his knees and bent down, pressing full, moist lips to that delicate part. He smiled when Nadja yelped, helpless, and he drew back as her hips bucked in surprise.

"Slowly," he murmured, dragging his eyes up her frame to find her face. "We have time. Unless," he said, grinning slyly, "you have somewhere else to be? Hmm? Where are you off to this time, Nadja?"

"Chicago," she grumbled, pushing out her bottom lip in a delicious pout.

"Be sure to write," Kirill quipped as his hand smoothed down her side and curved over her hip. He pulled her back to her side so that she was facing him and he reached down, pulling her thigh up and over top of his own. Angling his head over hers he kissed her for the first time since stepping into the room, and as he tasted the sweetness of her mouth wrapped in smoky clove and vodka, he wondered why he waited so long. Nadja's kisses were soft, and full, and he closed his eyes and let himself fall into them.

Kissing Kirill was a thrill for Nadja. He wasn't about public displays of affection; neither of them were. Stolen kisses on cheeks were about as far as they dared to venture when not behind closed doors. The doors were closed at that moment, though, and Nadja took advantage, pulling his full bottom lip up between her teeth, making him groan and swipe his tongue against hers. She felt his fingers on her thigh; felt them change direction from where they trailed to her knee and drew back up to the hip of her panties. He tugged and toyed with the elastic, sliding the backs of his fingers against the delicate skin at the juncture of her pelvis.

He wondered what would happen if he didn't make it to the airport the next morning. He wondered what would happen if he didn't check in with his handler and instead just vanished. He could; it would be easy, and he could take Nadja with him. Between the two of them, they had enough money to never have to work again. With a small groan, he let her pull him towards her, until he was pressed against the firm curvature of her body and her fingertips raked over his shoulders.

She pushed him down, back to where he started, and he went obediently, flashing her another smirk with narrowed green eyes. Her tongue ran along her upper lip as she watched his dark head descend. Each curve he passed was branded with his lips or tongue, and his hands trailed in the wake, palming her breasts through her bra once more and gliding down to anchor on her hips. His nose traced a line around her navel and along the bottom of her ribs, inhaling as he went, and he hummed and rolled his head like some big cat stretching in the sun. When he looked up again, her breath caught as his gaze found hers. His fingers snared the waistband of her panties and slowly dragged it down.

Nadja pressed her head back against the pillows, drawing her knees up and back as Kirill rolled her panties down and off of her body. He wasted little time, throwing the scrap of red satin behind his shoulder before placing a soft, wet kiss against the dark triangle of hair between her legs. He heard her breathe his name and felt the roll of her hips even as he held her down. "Shhh," he soothed, looking up once more. Christ, she was beautiful in this moment, when she wanted and anticipated unabashedly. His palm settled on her belly as his thumb gently parted her. He dove in with a greedy tongue and was rewarded with a sharp, breathy cry.

The first flick of his tongue made her buck, and she arched off the bed, throwing one hand behind her for balance. Her hips tipped forward into him, and her free hand went from clutching her hair to pulling her bra aside. With twisting fingers she pulled at her nipple and pinched it until she was panting. She aimed a muffled curse towards him, and she dug her fingers into the black, velvet nap of his hair and gripped it the best she could, and urged him on with hot, whispered words.

It didn't take much, not after the amount of time they'd been apart. He smirked as her thighs began to tremble after only minutes of careful, precise attention to the wettest, hottest parts of her. Under his briefs the aching length of his cock protested at being reduced to rutting the mattress, but he couldn't care, not when she was sliding sweetly on his tongue. He gripped her thighs as they threatened to close around his head. Gone was her hushed chanting, replaced with sharp, keening wails and warbled curses.

Curling her toes into the sheets she let herself relax, whining as Kirill's tongue twirled and twisted, and teased her with every move. It started in her hips, a sudden wash of heat and shivering that rocked through her. She came fast, and hard, and Kirill moaned with her, licking her softly until she floated back down. Finally, she had to wrench his head aside, too numb and throbbing to take anymore attention.

He growled up at her, pouting, but didn't take offence. He backed away and then crawled up her body, dipping his face to hers for another kiss. "Tiramisu," he murmured around her mouth, lashing his tongue against hers.

"Hmm?" Nadja lolled in the haze of her climax and pulled away from Sascha's kiss.

He chuckled with a wink and fell to his side, grunting at the dull throb of his erection. "You taste like tiramisu."

"I've never had it," Nadja purred.

Kirill hummed with a grin. "I think you'll like it."

* * *

><p>She <em>did<em> like tiramisu, it turned out, though why Kirill had likened her to the sweet, nutty flavor, she wasn't sure. Still, she blushed with every bite he fed to her, after they'd gorged on gnocchi and fried artichoke hearts. After dinner they'd showered, and soap and washcloths were replaced by hands, and then lips, until finally Kirill held Nadja firmly against the back wall. Aching with the need for release, he'd slipped inside her softness and groaned. No time was wasted and he set a steady pace as hot water thundered down around them, and their combined gasps of pleasured delight rose with the steam.

He'd fallen asleep soon after.

Nadja was a night owl. She watched him now from the armchair where he'd first found her that afternoon. With another clove cigarette and a glass of vodka, she stared at him, the long, lean, and pale lines of his body, and she noticed a few new scars. Trying not to frown at them, she then fixed her attention on his neck – the platinum crucifix she had given him for Christmas last year was still there, glinting in the light. He was still wearing it which meant a lot in Sascha's little world.

He woke to find her spot empty, cool to the touch when he ran his hand over it. The scent of her cigarette told him she'd either gotten up or hadn't yet come to bed. "Where did you go?" Kirill's voice floated up from where he sprawled.

Nadja blinked and waved his question off. "Where are you off to tomorrow?"

"Sri Lanka," he supplied. He watched her ruby lips purse and then fold into a delectable pout and he couldn't help but laugh. "What's wrong, _detka_? Hmm? Why the face?"

"You always go to the exotic places. Why do I get stuck in fucking America?"

Kirill mocked her expression, laughing when her face turned incredulous. Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed he stood, stretching, completely at ease with his nudity and the way Nadja's dark eyes floated up from his feet to his face, lingering on the spaces between. He crossed the room and took the cigarette and drink from her hands, finishing both before pulling her to her feet. "We're both here now," he breathed, reaching and brushing the dark curtain of her hair behind her ear.

He could be sweet when he wanted to be. She shivered as his fingertips brushed over the curve of her ear and down her neck, along her shoulder, the back of her arm, the inside of her elbow, until at last he took her hand in his and pulled her back to the bed. "I'm here, Nadja," he repeated. "And I'm not going anywhere tonight."

He arranged her on his lap, pulling at her hips, and she rose up to her knees reaching between them. He hissed; her hand was still cold from the icy glass of vodka, and it sent a shock of lust through the overheated skin of his shaft as she stroked him. She crouched over him, kissing him firmly, her tongue gliding along his bottom lip as he shuddered beneath her. Slowly, she pressed him inside, snug warmth and smooth wetness surrounding him. He choked on a gasp and his fingers fluttered at her hips, digging into the curves and letting her set the pace.

She was beautiful in the shadows, and in the deepest parts of his heart, and when she was like this, her guard down, she wasn't the cold-hearted bitch of an antiquities dealer she was during the day. She wasn't the peasant's daughter she was back in Russia. She was his, and he slid one hand from her hip up her torso, between her breasts until it lay warm and solid against her heart. She mewled, biting her lip, and shifted, taking him deeper, changing the angle, and her own palms spread over his chest.

She felt his pulse beneath her, and in her, and rode him faster. He was filling her up; taking over, moving in without warning, and as he stared up at her with his hooded eyes, she felt the first shivers of her climax burn between her hips. Her spine arched once again, and his palm slid down to her belly, holding her there, making her feel every inch of him, not willing to give up any second with her.

He was panting. Sweat beaded on his brow and when he slid his hands around her waist, he felt it there, too, at the small of her back. Christ, she could work him over. He felt her tighten suddenly and he gasped, and then groaned, pushing his head back into the pillow as his toes curled. "Fuck, Nadja," he purred. He gripped her ass and pulled her hard against him.

The low register of his voice spurred her on, as did his heated gaze, and the way he pulled desperately at her body. She knew he was close; she always knew. Arching forward now, he brushed against her from inside, making her eyes flare open and her hips buck against him. "Sascha," she panted. "Oh, my god, _Sascha_!" Her thighs tightened and she felt him swell, felt him twitch and jerk inside of her, and she melted around him, hissing with the sharpness of her orgasm. She fell onto his chest moments later, and mouths attacked, lips and tongue, while fingers slid through sweat-soaked hair.

* * *

><p>The sun rose much too quickly. Wrapped around the soft, warm, sweet and spice that lingered on Nadja's skin, Kirill could almost forget about everything. Beside him, Nadja's breath was deep and even, and he had to smirk at that. Nadja always slept like the dead if he did his job right. He pushed aside the absurdity of the thought – <em>everyone<em> slept like the dead if he did his job right. Christ, everyone was just _dead_. Inhaling slowly, Kirill forced his mind from winding up and refused to open his eyes just yet, despite the sharp ray of golden light that filtered in through the blinds. Something in his bones told him that his alarm would go off within the next three minutes, and until then, he wouldn't move a muscle. He'd just feel, and let her breath wash over him as he counted the seconds off in his head.

Eighty seven seconds later, his cell phone chirped, and then buzzed, signaling his alarm. Sri Lanka, then, because he couldn't just tell Gretkov to go fuck himself, even though he was aching to do so. With one fluid motion, Kirill sat up, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He scratched absently at his chest, noting his pale complexion with a bit of a frown. Sri Lanka would afford him some time in the sun, a prospect he was looking forward to after months in the north.

He felt the mattress shift behind him, and he blindly reached back, finding Nadja's hand. Their fingers wove together for a moment, his thumb stroking over the back of her hand.

"Meet me in Berlin next month?" Nadja murmured sleepily.

Kirill shook his head, although he was unsure if she'd see it or not. "Moscow," he declared, smiling to himself as her hand wound over his hip and flattened against his stomach with an affectionate touch.

"I told you I hate it there," Nadja reminded him.

"We can go anywhere you want to from there, princess," he continued. "Bali, Kathmandu, Singapore…"

"Phuket," Nadja interjected with an edge of finality.

"_Da,_" Kirill replied. Giving her hand one last squeeze, he gently pulled free of her embrace and stood, moving towards the bathroom. His heart had lingered there in Italy long enough.

* * *

><p><em>A Russian translation:<em>

_Ti takaya krasivaya: you are very lovely_


End file.
